The Reason To Be Jolly
by Frosty Autumn
Summary: Late at night on Christmas Eve, Jean's first year in Gotham, while walking home from work she is confronted by a group of thugs. Despite not putting much stock in the stories of Batman before, she is forced to reconsider when the Caped Crusader himself comes to her rescue. But when he gets hurt in the process, it soon becomes a Christmas that Jean will never forget.
1. Throw Cares Away

**Rated K+ for minor action violence  
**

* * *

"Last stop!" called the bus driver.

Jean Witter glanced out of the dark window, peering past her muted reflection. She rocked as the bus slowed and finally stopped near a row of sidewalk shops and tall buildings, and threw her scarf decorated with little Christmas trees around her neck, stood up, and walked to the sliding doors.

"Merry Christmas, ma'am," the bus driver said with a tip of his hat.

"And the same to you, sir," Jean said merrily, infected with the cheer of the season, and hopped down the steps onto the sidewalk.

The bus hissed and shut its doors, leaving Jean in a cloud of exhaust. She coughed and waved a hand in front of her face as the acrid smell stung her nostrils. She then set off, shoving her ungloved hands into the pockets of her thin, tweed coat and huddled within herself. Fresh snow crunched under her boots along the familiar path to her apartment. The sepia-toned clouds above were heavy with snow which fell in fat flakes that dusted her coat and blond hair.

Jean took a great sniff of crisp, winter air to clear out the headache-inducing fumes, and pushed up her slipping silver-wire glasses.

She knew it was just a trick of the mind - this particular date stirring up happy memories - but she could practically smell Christmas Eve in the air. It had it's own scent, she insisted on it. Not even having to work at the diner on Christmas Eve was enough to squash the feeling. Her thoughts briefly turned to the mounting bills on her coffee table, or at least as much of a coffee table as a standing, plastic tray could serve, but she shook them out of her mind. Not today, not tomorrow, the season was going to enjoyed before she returned to stress and grouchiness from overworking.

At least tips were more generous this time of year.

She had only lived in Gotham for three months and still didn't quite know what to think of it. On the one hand, it had the world-class Gotham University (which she was currently enrolled in), exciting nightlife (which she did not partake in), and a dazzling collection of celebrities, philanthropists, and businesses (which she could barely keep up with). But on the other hand, the city's crime and corruption rates were through the roof, which was enough for Jean's mother to refuse her daughter moving from their small, neighboring city.

And then there was the mysterious vigilante the Gothamites called "Batman", a subject her family was divided on. Her grandpa thought he was a hero, showing the useless, bumbling GCPD how to do their jobs right. Uncle Steve had a theory that Batman really set the crimes in motion himself and then stopped them, reaping the rewards in an attempt to gain the trust of Gotham. "Batman's just show, no substance," he would say. Her sixteen year old cousin, Crystal, claimed that Batman was simply an urban legend reported on every once in a while to keep up the morale of the hopeless and gullible citizens.

As for Jean, she wasn't sure what to think when it came to the masked man - if he was even human. Truth be told, she was afraid of him, myth or not. The whole thing felt unnatural, like Batman was a secret government experiment developed to solve Gotham's infamous crime problems. Not that she believed that, but if it turned out to be the truth it wouldn't have surprised her. If the news reports and sightings were to be believed, Batman couldn't possibly have been human. But she would have rather left the conspiracy theories to Uncle Steve.

The white-figure traffic signal lit up, prompting Jean to cross the street. Reaching the other side, she marched beside a tall, wooden fence surrounding the construction of a new apartment complex. The building's steel skeleton stood well above the fence and abandoned for the holidays. Passing a gap in the planks, snow-dusted construction equipment and debris were visible.

Every Gothamite seemed to have a Batman or Rogue story to tell, whether they claimed to have seen the figures themselves, knew a friend who witnessed a sighting, or even a friend of a friend. Shaky, amateur footage appeared every once in a while on the news, but it was never enough to prove the existence of the Batman. Even Xelia, the rainbow-haired stylist that lived down the hall from Jean, had a Gotham Rogue story herself, having had a run-in with The Riddler. At least according to the rumour that circulated like wildfire throughout the apartment building.

Voices sounded up ahead. Jean perked her head up and slowed down. They were coming from the next gap in the fence, the entrance to the construction zone. Her mother's warnings about walking around at night in Gotham rang in her head, but she had no other choice than to walk. Considering how she struggled with even meeting rent and groceries, having a car was never an option.

_Mind your own business, mind your own business, don't look, _she coached herself, sinking her neck into her collar as if it would make her invisible. She walked past the gap nonchalantly, hoping that they were just as innocent as her.

The voices quieted.

She didn't stop.

"Hey!"

Jean flinched, her coat too thick to make it obvious, but she kept walking at her steady pace as if she didn't hear.

"Hey, c'mere."

Jean's heart skipped a beat when she heard snow crunching behind her. Her body tensed. She quickened her stride without looking back and stepped off the curb to cross the street when a hand grabbed her shoulder and wrenched her around. She came face-to-face with a man about a head taller than her.

"What's the hurry, peach?" said her pursuer, grinning like he was enjoying a joke. The copper sky gave enough dim light to discern his smoothed, dark hair and stubbled chin. A group of four men stood behind him at the opening in the fence where he had come from, all wearing nice, black, winter coats. They were not construction workers, much to Jean's growing sense of unease. The equipment and machines weren't in use, already having a layer of snow on top, and there were no spotlights set up to work in the dark.

Jean's legs tingled in a numb feeling. She didn't answer the man, fearing that anything she said would only be interpreted as an invitation. The smell of stale cigarette smoke wafted from his coat and dulled her nose.

"Come, come get warm with us," Smoky offered, slinging his arm around her shoulders to steer her, smiling in a way that suggested he thought himself charming, but Jean knew it to be threatening. She dug her short heels into the packed snow to gain traction and counter Smoky's pull.

"No thank you," she managed to say, which surprised even her, considering her liquifying insides. She ducked under his arm. "I have somewhere to be right now."

Smoky put his hand on her again before she could turn around, guiding her closer to the group and resisting her attempt to leave. "That sounds great, we'll come with you."

_Oh no, oh no, no, no, _Jean's inner voice panted as she was herded onto the sidewalk. She searched the street as subtly as possible, not wanting the men to notice her escalating stages of panic, but the surrounding area was empty; not a single person or car was in sight.

"Hey, guys, looky here," announced Smoky, tilting his head to indicate the prize he caught.

Jean stumbled clumsily when Smoky shoved her into the circle. The other men sneered at her like they were enjoying a private joke as well.

Surrounded. Jean tried not to betray her fear through her expression, but her normally big, round, sleepy-looking eyes were considerably wider now. Her rational thinking ground to a halt and her inner voice scrambled to kickstart it again.

_Think, Jean, think,_ it forced desperately, _This doesn't feel right._

"I really should get going, I'm late for a Christmas Eve party," she stammered. It was a lie of course, this was her first Christmas alone, but it went without saying that she wasn't going to tell them that.

"At eleven at night? Aw, peach, you best forget about that and head home," said Smoky in a lively tone, "O'else Santa ain't gonna leave you a present. It's dangerous on these streets, ya know. Tell you what, since it's Christmas and all, we'll do the honourable thing and walk ya home. How' bout it, boys?"

The others nodded, mumbling their agreement. Their matching smiles made Jean feel smaller.

"No, thank you," she said politely but firmly enough in what she hoped would give them the hint, "I don't need help, I can go by myself."

"Ya hear that boys?" said Smoky grinning toothily, glancing over Jean's shoulder at the goons behind her and then looking over his own at the rest, "She don't need us."

A couple of them scoffed, and one chuckled hoarsely, their breath escaping into the air as steaming puffs.

Smoky nodded indulgently at Jean, his body bobbing along with his chin. "Yeah, yeah, I can dig it, I respect that," he said in good humour, "But here's the thing, ya know. What if you're outnumbered, like, say, right now."

He indicated his companions surrounding the two and slung his arm around Jean's shoulders yet again, wearing a concerned expression. "Between you and me, I dunno if independance is gonna get you very far. So we'll cut you a deal, eh? Just for you, peach. We'll take time outta our busy schedule to make sure you arrive home nice and safe, you invite us in for some hot chocolate, we negotiate our reward, maybe you can show us a little hospitality, we'll see. How's that?"

He planted his hands squarely on Jean's shoulders to force eye contact. His demeanor was easy-going, but his grip said something else entirely. The touch sent a slimy shudder down Jean's spine. Instinctively, she raised her hands and spread them to push Smoky's arms off. Though the action seemed bold, her lungs were constricting.

Smoky's eyebrows hardened. His grin lost enthusiasm momentarily as the corners of his mouth sagged by the tiniest meaure. However, he smiled again and played it off like he was disappointed.

"Aww, peach," he whined with furrowed brows, placing a hand on his chest, "We offer this out of the goodness of our hearts, in the spirit of the season, and you're gonna turn us down?"

Jean grimaced from his cigarette breath, resisting a cough. Her feet tensed in preparation to run. She had never been a great runner, her frame was too willowy, but it could've been possible to buy some time if she bolted suddenly and screamed down the street for help.

The thugs tightened their circle around her, closing the window of opportunity to make a break for it, watching her like hungry wolves.

"C'mon now, we're kinda gettin' cold here," said Smoky enticingly, waiting for Jean to agree, but she knew that any answer she gave would be interpreted as yes.

The group's shortest man who was the exact same height as her, and quite burly, shifted slightly to the left, leaving a narrow but wide enough space. Jean saw her window. Immediately she side-stepped Smoky and slipped through the gap near Burly, feeling fingers swiping at her back as she broke through.

"HELPrrmph!" she screamed, but several strong hands grabbed her from behind and lifted her off the ground, one clamping tightly over her mouth. Her legs bucked wildly in the air as she tried to break out of the iron grasp. She didn't know which one of them had her, but he pressed her tightly against himself, the back of her head forced into the crook of his neck.

"Alright, fine, if that's the way you want it," came Smoky's low, deadly voice in her ear. He grit his teeth and grunted as he tried to restrain her flailing body. Once he had help from the others, they started hauling her away.

Jean couldn't breathe, his hand was clamped underneath her nose, blocking it. Her screams ripped her throat, but they couldn't escape. The sound was too muffled to alert anyone. Smoky and the others dragged her along, melting into the darkness of the alleyway across from the construction zone.

There was no exit, they were surrounded by three immensely tall, red brick walls of surrounding buildings. A long, shallow dent in the center of the alley collected water, now solid ice. A dumpster with it's double lids left open was surrounded by a few trash cans at the far end. Crumpled, mushy cardboard sat haphazardly under the dumpster. Not a soul to be seen.

Smoky spun Jean around and shoved her roughly against the alley wall, leaving his hand pressed over her mouth, using his free arm to pin her torso, and his knees to keep her legs from kicking. Jean's heart jackhammered too violently to feel the sharp pain at the back of her head when it collided with the craggy bricks.

"C'mon doll, why you gotta be that way?" said Smoky with a dark grin, leaning his face close enough to fog Jean's glasses, "We can be friends."

Jean's mind flashed to horrible images: her family's reaction to the attack, and of possibly never seeing them again. Her eyes clouded and she sobbed into Smoky's hand, regretting stepping off the bus, having no idea that this could have been her last Christmas ever. The excitement she felt mere minutes ago was so distant.

_Oh please, please, please, somebody, _she begged frantically in her head, eyes raised to the sky, but she knew that she was clawing at an unreachable miracle. The inevitable was coming.

Black-gloved fingers appeared over Smoky's forehead. In an instant, they gripped and jerked his head sideways, then pushed his face into the wall behind Jean. Her eyes scrunched when she heard the sickening crack of Smoky's teeth colliding with the wall. His tight hold fell away as he crumpled to the ground, doubled over, swearing a mean streak and holding his face in agony.

Jean gulped in a breath of cold air, able to breathe again. Smoky's men yelled incoherently and scattered.

It was so dark in the alleyway that she couldn't see the assailant. The shadows were moving too rapidly. Jean froze against the wall, unable to slip away, mouth opened in horror. A sound similar to a flag flapping in the wind was close by. When her eyes adjusted and focused on just what exactly she was seeing, she realized it was a cape. The dark shadow was wearing a cape.

"It's the Bat!" one of Smoky's men yelled.

Jean's hands clawed against the wall. _No...no, it can't, it's not..._

Her attackers scrambled as soon as their leader fell to the ground. Two of them bolted out of the alley, blubbering in terror. They slipped and lurched on fresh snow and ice in their panic to escape.

The shadow had it's back to Jean, but she could make out two points on the top of it's head. It punched one of Smoky's men, lifted the goon up into the air, and threw him into the trashcans at the far end. They clanged, crashed and spilled over when he landed. The man lied there, sprawled over torn trash bags, and did not get back up again.

Burly pulled an object out of his coat that gleamed. A dagger. He bolted towards the shadow, raising his weapon high.

"W-watch out!" shouted Jean, unsure that the warning even came from her, she barely felt it leave her throat. She didn't know why she was helping, the shadow could have been just as much of a threat to her as it was to the thugs. Maybe Smoky and his gang had wandered into the shadow's territory.

She didn't even need to warn the mysterious attacker, it had already turned to face Burly, giving Jean her first glimpse of the dark figure. _It_ was clearly a man. With a bat symbol on his chest. Jean's legs wobbled. Her mind was so overwhelmed that she was barely able to register who was standing before her. She was seeing _him_ right in front of her own eyes; she knew who he was, but wasn't believing it. Everything happened too quickly to process.

Batman side-dodged the dagger's jab all too easily. Burly grit his teeth, clumsily wound up his weapon like a baseball bat and swung again. This time, the blade actually struck Batman, slicing his raised hand. Batman grunted and momentarily staggered, but straightened as the dagger was raised high and on course for his head. Batman grabbed Burly's wrist before the blade came down and wrenched the weapon from his attacker's fist, tossing it against the dumpster. He lifted the goon off his feet by the collar. Burly's legs dangled helplessly below, cycling in mid-air to gain a non-existent foothold. Whatever ounce of nerve or dignity he carried with him earlier had evaporated under Batman's unforgiving glare.

"P-p-please," Burly stammered, clinging to Batman's forearm, "Show mercy!"

Batman's lip curled. "I already did," he growled. His voice was a deep rumble that sent unpleasant vibrations through Jean's bones.

Batman tightened his fist and clocked Burly in the temple. The goon's legs stopped kicking, and his arms flopped to his sides. Batman tossed him unceremoniously to the ground. Jean's stomach heaved as Burly fell into a heap like a ragdoll.

Absolute silence. Jean's breath came out so shallowly that even she couldn't hear it. Batman straightened to his full height and faced her. When their line of sight met, her blood went icy. This wasn't a wild hallucination, whatever the cause could have been. He was real.

And he saved her life.

A clang echoed. Smoky, sniffling from the blood streaming down his nose, had crawled to grab the dagger on the ground and was on his feet. In a split second, he had already thrown back his arm to launch the blade at Batman.

It was impossible for Jean to blink, but if she did, she would have missed everything. Batman sprang into action just as the dagger left Smoky's hands, spiraling in the direction of the vigilante's head. Batman ran head-on towards it. Just as it looked like the blade was about to be embedded in his forehead, Batman crouched low and glided on the sliver of ice in the center of the alley. The dagger sailed clear over his cowl and disappeared into the street. Smoky's expression barely had time to change before Batman met up with him, sprang up, and delivered a punishing uppercut to Smoky's jaw.

His hands flew to his face as he howled in pain. Batman wasted no time in hoisting him up in the air and tossing him into the open dumpster. Smoky smacked limply against the double lids and fell inside. The lids wobbled and slammed shut. No sound came from it afterwards.

The alley was silent again. Deafeningly silent. Jean's lips trembled, forgetting how to form speech. She fought to keep her words from spilling all at once.

"You...you didn't kill them, did you?" she asked uncertainly. While still counting her blessings that someone intervened, it was a chilling thought to be witness to murder.

"No," replied Batman in his husky tone, "We should leave before they wake up."

It was as though the wall was magnetic; Jean could not force herself to pull away, like Smoky was still holding her there. Her heart refused to stop hammering against her ribs as the last few minutes flashed through her mind's eye.

Batman didn't wait for her answer. Without delay he took her wrist, his grip surprisingly gentle though rushed.

Jean's shoulders ached from being tense for so long, and her arms felt tender from where Smoky dug his fingers. Bruises were sure to form, she knew. With Batman's guidance, she allowed herself to peel away from the wall. Without warning, he then wrapped his arm around her waist and pressed her close, causing her to gasp. Before she could make sense of their sudden closeness, Batman raised his grappling gun into the air and pulled the trigger. Jean flinched as a loud bang and shrill whipping sound erupted from it.

"Hold on tight," he instructed.

Jean panicked, automatically obeying. She had barely linked her arms around Batman's neck before they both shot off the ground. She yelped, scrunching her eyes as her heart plummeted into her feet. They had launched so fast that she felt like she was slipping out of Batman's grasp, which caused her knees bend in reflex. Cold winter air rushed down, flattening her hair, and her toes curled in their boots from lack of solid ground underneath. She badly needed to adjust her grip, but was terrified of doing so in case she'd accidently let go, but Batman's arm remained secure.

They lurched as he landed expertly on the rooftop. When the tips of Jean's shoes scraped pebbles, she dared to open her eyes. It wasn't quite solid ground, but she let out the breath she had been holding in one great big rush. Batman unwrapped his arm, but she wished he wouldn't, it still felt like she was going to fall. Feeling wobbly, she staggered to the smoke stack and leaned against it for balance, taking in deep breaths.

* * *

**A/N: I'll be the first to admit I'm not the greatest at writing fights (I realized this as soon as I started typing the one above xD), but I hope it was still good.**

**Xelia, the rainbow-haired hairdresser who had a run-in with the Riddler, is not my creation. She belongs to Iceewhateverthenumbersare, and is the main character in her own series of Batman stories on this site. Seriously, go read them, they're fantastic! Xelia is used with Icee's permission.**

**I'd love to know what you guys thought of this first chapter!**


	2. Christmas Is Here

"Do you live anywhere nearby?" asked Batman.

Jean weakly raised her head and scanned the city scape. "Yeah," she panted, spotting her apartment building two blocks away, "It's close by."

"I'll drive you there," he said, looking over the edge, down into the street below.

"What?"

"So that I know you'll arrive safely."

Jean got the odd image of Batman driving through the city in a minivan decked out with peel-and-stick bat symbols. He actually drove? In what exactly, she couldn't imagine. She thought of everything from a sleek, expensive hot model car, to a Go-Kart, to a shopping cart. Vigilantism wasn't exactly a career path people chose for the money.

"Come with me," directed Batman when Jean didn't approach.

She shook her head. He, whoever he was, was crazy. He was so much less concerned about falling than she was, to the point of spitting in gravity's face. The smoke stack she was practically attached to was her anchor. If she were to let go, she was convinced the roof would tilt downwards and send her falling over the edge. She would sooner have to be pried off than willingly release it. Clasping to the chimney was as instinctual as breathing.

Batman approached, dark cape covering him like a blanket. If possible, he was even more intimidating this way when his body wasn't visible, looking like a floating black shape. His mouth was a straight line - not a frown, but focused.

"Are you afraid of me?" he said.

Jean was not compelled to lie, especially when he towered over her like that. There was no amount of thanks she could bestow that would have been enough to really express her gratitude, but his dark visage was terribly effective. She nodded her head.

"Don't be," he assured her, "You're not the people I'm after."

"Oh...that's good then," she said awkwardly, unsure of how to take that answer. It was harder when she couldn't even see his eyes behind the angled, white screens in his mask.

Apparently the Caped Crusader wasn't very busy tonight because he wasn't leaving. It was so quiet between the two. Jean wanted to speak up but didn't know what Batman wanted her to do. She adjusted her grip on the chimney again when the cold metal began to numb her fingers. The gentle snowfall from earlier was picking up.

"I'm not going to leave you up here," said Batman as if he read her mind. He didn't give an order, he wasn't even angry, but Jean still shrank a little from hearing those words; they were an iron-clad statement. No choice was given, she was going with him. She knew she really couldn't stay up on the roof forever, but it sure felt like the easiest option at the moment, even though the snow would bury her by morning.

"Okay, just...just give me a minute," she complied, shifting uncomfortably.

Batman nodded and waited patiently. Jean delicately eased away from the smoke stack, putting all of her balance into her wobbling shins. Her knees bent like they suddenly couldn't support her weight, like they wanted to be closer to the ground. She reached out to Batman and tightly gripped his forearm for stability. His arm was so thick that she couldn't circle her fingers halfway around it. If he did so much as flex, Jean was sure she would have been comically catapulted backwards. The government experiment theory was beginning to look more and more plausible; the man was built like a tank.

She didn't have to look far over the edge to see a long, black, incredibly expensive-looking car down on the street below. Batman led her to the edge of the roof, but she planted her feet into the rocks, discomforted. Batman halted when he felt the slightest resistance. He turned and faced her questioningly.

Jean gulped. "That your car?"

Batman nodded.

"...You're not going to take me home in it, are you?"

"Did you have another way in mind?"

She let go of his arm. Driving was definitely the quickest way, and walking seemed the smartest, but it didn't feel like the wisest move to get into a car with someone she met only ten minutes ago.

"Is it possible for you to think of one?" she inquired nervously, and then immediately felt bad for asking. The man had already risked his life to save her and she was already asking more of him. But just in case he was a bit loony, then she much preferred to be in the open where people were within screaming distance.

He reached out of his solid inky-black form. "You'll just have to trust me."

Jean looked down at his offered hand in hesitation. Strangely, the black glove he wore looked shiny and wet, and she raised an eyebrow. Suddenly remembering, she recalled the fight in the alley; Burly had actually managed to slip Batman's defences.

"You're hurt," she said with concern.

"It's nothing," muttered Batman, shrugging his cape to hide it.

Jean apprehensively bit her lip. She was willing to drop the subject, even _wanted _to drop it, for he sounded so sure, but he was still injured. Because of her.

"Can I take a look at it?" she asked delicately.

"I'm fine," he asserted.

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

"It might be serious, though. I've got a First-Aid kit in my apartment, I can help you," she insisted.

"No."

"Please? I need some way of thanking you, and this is the only way I can."

"I don't need thanks, I just need to know that you're safe."

"But-,"

* * *

The young woman standing before him certainly wasn't the most stubborn person Batman had ever come across (he could name five off-hand who could easily out-do her), but it was taking some extra stamina to refuse.

In truth, the cut did sting, but it didn't feel any worse than a papercut. The glove absorbed most of the blade's swing. He pressed his lips together in annoyance all the same; he had been sloppy. The thug in the alley wasn't supposed to even breach the air Batman was breathing, yet still managed to get close enough to deal damage no matter how tiny. Unacceptable. Batman had to always be aware of an opponent's proximity everytime he practiced agility and environment awareness drills. He made a mental note to pull double-time into the next training session to make up for tonight's careless and, hopefully, last blunder.

The girl he had saved was clinging to his arm like static. Frightened as she was, her expression pleaded for him to agree to her offer. He thought of Alfred who could also patch him up in a second, but his faithful butler was given the night off, and was most deserving of it, too. After much back-and-forth, Alfred grudgingly agreed to rest for the night, on the condition that Bruce feel no reluctance in fetching him should his services be needed.

A cut wasn't something worth bothering Alfred for, Bruce thought, no matter how much the butler insisted that it would be no trouble. And if Batman had to fight again tonight, absolutely nothing had to get in the way. Even something so small as a cut hand could hinder his abilities, so much as a split second break in concentration caused by the tiniest sting of pain could risk everything.

He surveyed the sky. The Bat-Signal wasn't visible and the hacked GCPD communications hadn't brought up anything significant in hours. It probably couldn't hurt to get his wound patched up while he could.

* * *

Batman's silence gave Jean time to realize what exactly she was offering. A stranger was going to be allowed into her home. She pursed her lips at having spoken too soon. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. At least he was going to say no again, and Jean would agre-

"Alright," replied Batman.

Jean's shoulders slumped. _Crap, _she thought. In an attempt to save face, she contorted her disappointment into acceptance.

"Oh. Well, good then," she said with finality. After all that begging, she wasn't going back on her word now. Still, that nagging feeling in the back of her mind wasn't letting her off easy. The nagging sounded strangely like her mother.

Batman removed the grapple gun from his belt and held it up to show her. "The only other way is this. Still prefer it?" he asked to confirm.

Jean nodded uncomfortably.

"Suit yourself," answered Batman, and then propped one leg onto the ledge. Without warning, he swept Jean in and locked his arm around her for the second time, just as he had before, pressing her firmly against him.

"Oh no," Jean moaned anxiously, but she still placed her arms around his cowl-reinforced neck, buried her face into his broad shoulder, and squeezed her eyes shut in preparation for the sickening lunge. This time she made sure to lock her hands tighter in case the launch took her by surprise again. Batman's suit was so chilly from the weather that it bled into her skin.

The bang rang loudly in Jean's ears. She would have been glad if this was the last time she'd ever hear it again. Her toes curled when Batman stepped off the roof and sent the two of them plunging headfirst into the street below. A sharp, unintentional squeal escaped Jean's throat. She tightened her hold so hard that her muscles screamed for mercy.

They dropped only to be propelled seconds later, just when she thought they were both going to make a grisly pattern on the sidewalk. Jean's stomach heaved up and down at every rise and fall like she was on a roller coaster - only this ride had no safety nets and worked purely on momentum and gravity, much worse than any roller coaster ever imagined. Her arms were so rigid from holding onto Batman that her bones ached, and the swinging motion was making her light-headed. The worst part was reaching the height of an arc and entering zero-gravity for a few seconds, terrifying Jean into thinking that she was going to float right out of Batman's hold.

There wasn't enough daredevil in her to convince herself to do this again.

The unmistakeable crunch of snow and lack of harsh wind at her back was what alerted Jean that they were finally back on solid ground. The landing had been so smooth that she barely felt it at all, not even a rattle. Her hair, usually so straight that it fell like a sheet, was now wild and tangled. If this was the wrong building, she would choose to walk.

"Which one is yours?" said Batman steadily, studying the apartment building, completely unaffected by the death-defying stunt he just pulled as if it was as uneventful as doing laundry. Meanwhile, Jean wobbled tipsily away, bent over with her hands leaning on her knees for balance, attempting to focus despite her spinning sight, and fighting the urge to hurl her internal organs all over the snowy lawn.

"Right up there," she panted, pointing weakly, "third floor, fourth from the left."

Her balcony and sliding glass door were plain compared to the wreaths and colorful, twinkling Christmas lights on almost every other railing. Jean had been so disappointed earlier in the month when she reviewed her bank account to find that she wouldn't have been able to afford Christmas decorations this year. She vowed to overdo the decorations next year to make up for this lost one.

Once able to stand upright, she walked to the building's brightly illuminated entrance, tip-toeing on the sheet of ice on the concrete step. With one hand on the ridged, rectangular handle, she looked over her shoulder to find that Batman wasn't following her.

"Aren't you coming?" she asked curiously.

"I'll meet you there," he said, eyes fixed on her balcony.

Jean supposed that Batman preferred to stay in the shadows. The image of him skulking in well-lit halls while following her certainly wasn't as intimidating as what cannot be seen. He must have had to maintain the image of semi-anonymity by being able to disappear at the drop of a hat. When every corner was illuminated, there were very few options for concealment.

"...Okay, I'll, um, I'll be right back," Jean told him, though her mind was nothing but second thoughts.

She keyed in the security code on the panel, careful to stand in front of it to obscure Batman's view, nearly yanked the metal framed door once she was buzzed in, and hopped the stairs two at a time. The elevator would have taken too long and she didn't want to make him wait.

By the time Jean reached the third floor her legs burned, causing her to wince and lope unevenly in the hallway. Upon reaching the door, her fingers fumbled with the keys in her rush, missing the slot three times before sliding it in. She stepped into the darkness of her apartment, placed her keys on the hook, and switched on the small lamp on the side table.

Her apartment's layout seperated into three modest rooms; bedroom, bathroom, and a larger open one that housed everything else. Only a counter seperated the galley kitchen from the main area.

Batman was waiting on the balcony, beyond the sliding glass door. If Jean had not been expecting him she would have gotten the fright of her life. He was a still, dark silhouette against the sky, watching her through the glass and past the shadowy living room to the entrance where she stood. She crossed the room quickly and unlatched the sliding door, not wanting to make him wait longer in case he'd change his mind. Or before she could change _her _mind.

"I'll go get the kit, I'll be right back," she said, standing aside to beckon him in. Once he stepped inside, she slid the door shut behind him. He was imposing even inside her living room, and looked very out of place against the beige color scheme and simple furniture, a stark contrast.

Jean's heart did a nervous flip when he straightened to full height. The two points (ears?) at the top of his cowl rose taller than the curtain rod.

She hated to turn her back on him, but the bathroom was behind her. She tried to sidle sideways in order to keep an eye on him, but when she almost stumbled over her schoolbag on the floor, she knew it wasn't going to work. Mumbling in embarassment, she jogged to the bathroom where she kept the first-aid kit. Her neck prickled from his sight trained on her retreating back.

The white kit sat on the floor, unused all these months, between the bathtub and a wicker clothes hamper. Despite being a med student, it wasn't her idea to own a First-Aid kit, it was Mrs. Witter who insisted. Jean bent down to pick it up so fast that she almost threw out her back, and then quickly returned to the living room. Batman was exactly where she had left him. The white screens over his eyes didn't glow in the dark, but in the shadows where he stood they seemed to have an eerie brightness. It sent a different kind of shiver through her than the cold outside did. However, she vowed to be persistent and set the kit down on the wooden stand that held her T.V.

"Let me see your hand," she said.

Batman did as he was told and presented his palm. Jean inspected the cut by delicately holding his wrist and fingers, but the slash in the glove wasn't wide enough to see it properly.

"I'm going to need you to take your glove off," she said, already feeling herself automatically going into professional mode. She was nowhere close to becoming a doctor, but the part came naturally.

Batman obediently pulled his gauntlet off. The arm of his suit stretched down to the wrist, leaving only the hand exposed. He offered it to her again, bloody palm up. Jean paused for a moment; realization hit her. He really _was _human. While she never fully believed that he could be a machine or cyborg, it was sobering to see blood and torn flesh. Strong and incredible as Gotham's supposed saviour was, he had the same vulnerability as everyone else.

That just made him more of a hero in her eyes.

Jean held Batman's fingers again and studied the wound with a newfound respect. She had to lean her head at several angles to get a better look, trying to catch the light from the entrance way's lamp several feet away. Batman didn't seem willing to walk into the apartment any further, and Jean didn't think he'd appreciate it if she switched on the ceiling light above them.

The slash was clear cut, uninterrupted from end to end across. Dry, sticky blood smeared the entire palm.

"Looks like it clotted pretty fast," she stated, noting little blood loss, "It doesn't seem to be too deep either, so the good news is that you won't need stitches. Let's just clean it up first."

She went into the lit kitchen to wet a paper towel - it was probably a safe bet that Batman wouldn't leave the shadows to rinse off his hand in the sink - returned, and set to work. Once the excess blood was wiped completely, she reached into the kit for the bottle of antiseptic and a cottonball.

"Alright," she warned, unscrewing the cap, "Get ready, this is going to be the worst part."

She pressed the cottonball into the bottle's mouth and tipped it upside down. Batman waited patiently, unresponsive, and giving Jean no cue to what he was thinking. She was under the impression that she was medically tending to a stone gargoyle. He could have even been convincing if she didn't have her glasses on.

She dabbed the cut lightly, sneaking looks over her lenses to gage Batman's reaction. His lips paled and tightened by the most miniscule, almost invisible margin, but he still remained motionless as if entirely unfazed. Jean blinked, silently impressed. The same antiseptic had been used on her many times as a child, rendering her a blubbering mess by the time her mother applied the bandage. Bottled dignity zapper, that's what it was.

___Uncle Steve and Crystal are _never_going to believe this__,_ Jean thought, amused, _I've got Batman...in my house!_

The man probably even had a name, too, a birth certificate even, though it was strange to think of him as anything else but Batman. Maybe it was Sam. His chin looked like it belonged to a Sam. Yeah, Sam, she concluded.

Next, she picked up the roll of gauze. Bandages seemed like overkill, since the injury wasn't serious, but the cut was still too heavy-duty for a simple band-aid. Gingerly, she circled the gauze a few laps around his hand.

"That oughta to do it," she said once tying the end off and admiring her workmanship. It wasn't pretty - her home wasn't a clinic and she wasn't a doctor after all - but Batman's injury had been cared for the best way she knew how, and she was proud of it; both of her handiwork, and the fact that she could repay her saviour. It wasn't enough to make up for rescuing her, she knew, but it was a start.

Batman flexed his fingers, testing the bandages. He curtly nodded, regarding Jean. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Least I could do," Jean smiled, placing her hands on her hips in a pleased manner, feeling braver.

Batman hadn't spoken in so long that Jean almost forgot what he sounded like. His low, husky voice sounded compressed in closed quarters, without the echo of the alley. She couldn't decide whether that made him sound more threatening or less. She spun the cap back on the antiseptic bottle and packed up the gauze, mulling it over.

When she turned around to face Batman again, he seemed to have spotted something to his right side. She followed his gaze to find her anatomy textbook lying open on the standing, plastic tray that served as her temporary table, right next to him. Jean waited, unsure of what fascinated him about it, but she suddenly felt vulnerable, like Batman found out something secret about her.

"Doctor is the short answer, right?" he said knowingly, turning his head to her again.

Jean understood. "Trauma or general surgeon is the long one. My goal."

Batman's chin tilted downward, seemingly for a better look at her, like he was finally seeing her eye to eye since they met. "That's a long road."

Jean's mental exhaustion from classes resurfaced. She sputtered her lips. "Tell me about it."

She instantly regretted the tone she used, it sounded rude. Luckily, Batman didn't seem to care or notice. Or maybe it was just his phenomenal poker face. Either way, she hoped he didn't take it personally.

"You live here off-campus because there were no available dorm rooms," he continued.

"Y-yeah, that's right," she said suspiciously, "How did you-"

"Due to overcrowding, and one of the buildings being condemned."

"Oh, right." Her shoulders relaxed. That story had been in the news, he wasn't been doing the freaky mind reading bit again. Batman instilled a sense of paranoia in her where there was none before, like he already knew everything about her by a mere glance, but he was still right about the overcrowding.

Jean had worked and studied the hardest she ever had in her life to get into Gotham University to study medicine, and still just got in by the skin of her teeth. Then there were the finances, which would have been marginally less tight if she had a roommate to share rent with, but nobody answered her ad so far. She chose to keep optimistic that the loan, and job at the diner, would hold up for the next little while, but some days were harder than others. Some days it was as though determination was her only fuel.

Suddenly, she noticed the bills on her 'coffee table', next to the textbook. Jean had completely forgotten they were there. They each had her full name and address printed on them. In the vicinity of Batman, that made her uncomfortable for him to know that kind of information, even if he basically knew where she lived already. She cleared her throat loudly, stumbling to gather the envelopes into her chest.

"Ahum, sorry about the, um, about the mess. I'm usually not so-...not so, uh..."

She tossed the bills into a slide-out drawer from under the T.V and kicked it shut. Batman stared, at least that's what it looked like he was doing, but his expression was very difficult to determine due to the covered eyes.

The room got very quiet. Jean awkwardly drummed her fingers on the wooden stand, embarassed by her reaction. In addition, now that she tended to Batman's wound, she had no idea what to do next. Was she supposed to be a good host and tell him he was free to crash on the couch and watch some T.V? Was he going to show himself out? Jean didn't want to be rude and ask him to leave first when he was there by her invitation.

The blinking red light of the alarm clock from her bedroom caught her eye. _12:32 _AM! It was already Christmas and she wasn't even aware of it. Even though her family wasn't present this year, she was late to partake in their yearly tradition.

An idea popped into her head.

"Would you like to join me for a mug of hot cocoa, sir?" she offered. Addressing him as 'sir' sounded rather formal and stiff, but calling him 'Mr. Batman' would have sounded even more ridiculous to her. "It's like a Christmas tradition to me."

Batman paused for a moment as though thinking it over. His normally rigid mouth then went crooked. He was...smiling. Well, sort of. Half-way at the most. If one tilted their head.

"Bah humbug," he said in a lighthearted tone. Or at least as lighthearted as his gravelly, intimidating voice could possibly get.

Was he humouring her? Jean eagerly wanted to take the bait anyway.

"I'll take that as a yes," she said brightly.

Batman didn't reply. No protest was good enough for Jean.

Perhaps it was a silly tradition, it wasn't even a unique one, but it was one she loved all the same. It all began when she and her cousins were very young. A cup of hot cocoa at midnight to welcome in the glorious, festive day. The adults of course toasted with something a little stronger. Since then, the young children insisted every year that they do it again and again until it simply became what they had to do at midnight on Christmas. Even though Jean was an adult now, she still preferred hot cocoa as it was without the additions her older family members poured into their own mugs.

"Would you like to sit down?" said Jean, gesturing to the couch before she left for the kitchen.

Batman's mouth became a straight line again. When he didn't answer, Jean slowly retracted her outstretched hand.

"Or-or you can stand, that's fine, too," she said quickly.

Entering the kitchen, she fetched a carton, along with a pot, doubling the amount of milk now that she had someone to share with. A small warmth, like a flickering match, blossomed in her chest at the thought.

With the placement of the stove, Jean had to turn her back on Batman once again. While she wasn't _entirely _comfortable with the arrangement, she supposed that if he really planned to hurt, kidnap, or rob her, he probably would have done it already. But it still didn't hurt to be on guard. She made sure to listen attentively and stay close to the pot in case she had to fling the boiling contents over her shoulder during an attack, or use it as a weapon. Her back tingled from not knowing what he was doing behind her, like he would pounce at any moment.

She spun around to get two hot cocoa packets out of the cupboard under the counter, checking on Batman as subtly as she could. He never moved an inch from his spot at the sliding glass door. This made Jean feel a little better, but nobody could be too careful when inviting a stranger into their home. Satisfied that he was still where she could see him, she flipped open the box of hot cocoa packets. Down to the last two.

While she hadn't been expecting company, Christmas spirit was filling her to the brim, and sharing one of her favorite treats once sounded infinitely better than drinking two alone. Almost giddy, she grabbed both packets, and pulled two mismatched mugs, one light blue and the other traffic-cone orange, from the cupboard above.

She walked back into the living room to pass the time until the milk heated, with Batman's line of sight following her. A bout of mutual silence fell upon the two. At least Jean learned something new: Gotham's saviour was a man of few words. It was almost a comfortable silence, however. Batman didn't speak to her, and she was at a loss for a decent conversation starter. They both contently watched the fat, falling snowflakes outside, pretending not to notice how quiet the room became.

The pot sizzled after a minute or so. Jean excused herself, shut the stove off, and poured the packet's contents in. The brown powder swirled and blended evenly as she whisked. Microwaving may have been easier, but she thought of this method as much more satisfying. A smile tickled her mouth. Everything was beginning to feel just like home.

She poured the drink into the two waiting mugs, making sure to give a little extra to Batman. It was a cold night and in the spirit of Christmas, after all. She had much to be grateful for tonight.

"There we go," she said cheerfully, grabbing both mug handles, "I hope you-"

Jean halted mid-sentence and stopped in her tracks when she turned around to find an empty room. The sliding door was wide open with it's flimsy curtains waving in the winter breeze that chilled the entire apartment. Jean's head darted everywhere searching the place, but Batman was gone. She set the mugs down on the counter with a loud, ceramic _clink_ and bounded to the open door, thrusting her head through. No footprints tarnished the snow on the balcony, nor on the ground level below. It was as if he had never been there at all.

Jean hugged herself, a little unnerved, as the cold bit her nose and fingertips. Her breath escaped in little puffs as she looked to her left and then to her right, but nothing was disturbed. She then tilted her head up to the sky. The Bat-Signal glowed against the clouds.

* * *

**A.N: ****I'm so sorry I wasn't able to finish this before Christmas was over, like I originally intended to do, but I went on vacation for Christmas and New Year's and didn't have a computer with me. So if you've all got some leftover Christmas spirit in you, cozy on up by the fire and let me tell you a story. Stay a while, why dontcha :D**

**I'd love to know what you think about this story!**


	3. Bringing Good Cheer

Jean double-locked and dug wedges into all of her doors. Still feeling Smoky and the gang's hands on her, she was overcome with the need to take a shower. Once in the tub, she winced when pressurized water from the shower-head beared down on sensitive areas of her skin, and winced even more while shampooing. Dry blood flaked onto her fingernails from when Smoky threw her against the brick building, and her sides still felt very tender. Lifting her left arm up to the light bleeding through the shower curtain, her bicep was clearly dotted in greyish-purple bruises.

Cautiously, she opened the bathroom door a crack and peeked into the apartment. When all that greeted her were the rainbow twinkling lights of her table-top, two-foot Christmas tree, she felt comfortable enough to exit the bathroom.

She didn't want to admit that she was on edge from Smoky, not to mention the Batman encounter, but she was lying to herself if she was convinced that she wasn't scared if either one decided to come back. Now alone, in the privacy of her own mind, her own thoughts, she was able to see the past two hours in vivid detail. Every shadow seemed to have Batman's eyes, and the smell of the cooling stove was sharp, reminding her of Smoky's cigarette smell.

Toweling off her pale blond hair, she entered the sitting area to switch off the tiny tree, and then scanned the room one more time. Just in case. She paused on that one particular spot in front of the sliding glass door. Her vision made an outline of Batman from where he had stood, as if he was still there - just to prove that he was real. She then noticed the cabinet that shelved her porcelain doll collection near the T.V. She wanted to slap a hand to her face as she realized in humiliation that Batman was in full view of it. What an impression he got of her.

There was little else to do but go to bed. After double checking - scratch that, triple checking - that her window latch was tightly locked, not to mention properly functioning, Jean pulled back her pale green bedsheets and gingerly set herself down, taking care not to lay on her sides so as not to put pressure on her bruises.

Normally she would have felt safe and warm in her bed on Christmas morning, but every thump, squeak, and engine rev that night drew the covers just a little more closer.

* * *

Jean awoke the next morning at 9:34 AM - according to the bedside digital clock she squinted at - in a wonderfully toasty tangle of bedsheets. She sighed contentedly, closing her eyes again to ease the sting of sleep left behind. Christmas day, she thought happily. Her inner-child wanted to roll out of bed immediately and open the presents that her family sent a couple days ago, but her adult body was too comfortable. Her pillow felt so soft against the sensitive skin on her scalp...caused by that gang of brutes. The previous night's events crashed instrusively into the forefront of her mind, effectively sucking away all of the warmth in her bed.

They were still out there. Jean's legs curled as her body seized in discomfort. Preferring, though, not to stew in fear, she felt about on her nighttable until she found her glasses, and reluctantly threw her warm blankets off to go and make breakfast, receiving goosebumps for her troubles once cooler air hit her skin.

Opening her bedroom door just a crack and finding nothing waiting for her, she warily walked into the main room and pulled the curtain rod to let sunlight in. Outside was positively picturesque. Fresh snow sparkled on the balcony and coated the railing like icing, reminding her of delicous gingerbread houses that she'd be making with her grandmother if they were together today.

At her side lay all the evidence she needed that the night before actually happened. The first-aid kit was open, exactly where she left it. The soiled cottonball she used, however, was completely gone. Batman snuck away DNA evidence of himself. Jean put her hands on hips, visibly impressed. There was no way she was ever going to turn it in to police for identification, but she had to commend Batman for thinking ahead.

Pulling a box of cereal out of the cupboard, she switched on the T.V for background noise. The channel was still left on the news. She would change it to Christmas Specials in a bit as her hands were full with grabbing a plastic jug of milk out of the fridge with her free hand.

_"-after Animal Control arrived, the bear was then tranquilized and later safely transported back into it's natural habitat. In other news-"_

Jean poured the last of her corn flakes into a bowl. The handful of powdered sugar that hid at the bottom of every bag sprinkled all over a decent amount of flakes. She sighed, quickly wrote **Cereal** on a grocery list on the fridge, then untwisted the cap on the milk jug.

"..._caught by none other than the mysterious Batman."_

Milk splashed over the bowl and onto the table. Jean jolted her neck at the T.V screen so hard that her brain rattled. Smoky's scabby, swollen face stared back at her in a mugshot, followed by two other accomplices.

_"Gary Birbiglia has been known to police who had issued an arrest warrant two months ago when Birbiglia skipped a preliminary hearing based on charges of assault and kidnapping."  
_  
Jean's knees buckled. Her backside met the chair so quickly that she didn't remember sinking onto it. If it weren't for Batman, it might've been _her_ face on the news. During a missing person's report.

She brought her breakfast into the living room and planted herself on the couch, directly in front of the T.V. She ate her cereal mechanically, not really tasting it, eyes fixed on the news report. There were two more of Smoky's (or Gary's) thugs still out there, but according to the news anchor, they had been ratted out by one of their caught comrades and the police now had their names - which made Jean feel only a little better. There was still that nagging feeling in the back of her mind that kept asking what could have been.

The news anchor moved on to stock reports. Jean switched the channel to Christmas Specials, but her heart wasn't in it. Bright colors and flashes of animated movement jumped in her peripheral, but she slurped up the last of the sugary milk, deep in thought. This day was a gift. She would do something today. No, not just today, when she was able. Batman's kindness would extend through her to other people.

She didn't think it practical to dress up in her own suit and fight crime, that would have been stupid (_incredibly_ so), but there were other things she could do. Less illegal things. She tapped her chin, gazing at the ceiling.

The soup kitchen! That's what she could do! It was only three blocks away, easy enough to walk. There was nothing to do all day but sing Christmas carols to herself and open a couple presents anyway. Because of school, Jean had no time to even plan a lonely Christmas dinner for herself. Spending the holiday with actual people felt like an infinitely better plan.

"Sorry, Grinch," she said to the T.V, clicking it off with a flourish and tossing the remote onto the sofa. "But I should be giving back today, too."

She knew The Grinch's happy ending anyway, he would understand.

She rushed to grab her apartment keys off the hook, letting her enthusiasm for the idea carry her out the door. In fact, she got so carried away that she almost made it halfway down the hall before it occured to her that she was still rocking a pyjamas/bed-head combo - a situation she promptly turned back to fix.

Now clad in jeans and a blue, white, and black striped turtleneck, she closed the door behind her and turned the key. Another door clicked down the hall. A pop of vibrant color appeared around the corner of Jean's eye, and contrasted heavily with the drab walls of the building. It caught her gaze, making her swivel to her right. Xelia, the stylist who was rumoured throughout the complex to have had a brush with the Riddler _and_ Batman, was stepping out of her own apartment five doors down.

_She might know more about him,_ thought Jean. Before going to sleep last night, she mentally slapped herself for easily confirming to Batman where she went to school. Gotham's so-called saviour _did_ work outside the law, after all, she couldn't simply trust that he'd abide by it, right? Next to whether or not he existed, rumours also circulated of his allegiances, whether or not he truly even had a side, or if he just chose whichever one suited his goals at the moment. Maybe Xelia could shed some light.

Jean knew the young woman by sight, having seen her a couple times in passing within the hallways (it was quite hard to forget hair like that), but they had never spoken to eachother, or been introduced.

Well, first time for everything...

"Xelia? Wait!" called Jean. She took off into a jog, her feet patting loudly on the threadbare carpet.

The rainbow-haired hairdresser stopped in her tracks and spun around.

"It is Xelia, right?" said Jean, catching up.

"Yes," answered Xelia hesitantly. "Uh, Jean, right?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, have you got a minute?"

"Ummm..." Xelia looked over her shoulder, then at the keys in her hand. "Sure. What's up?"

"I was wondering if I could ask you something."

"About the Riddler, hm?" nodded Xelia with a tight, non-humourous smile, wrinkling her chin.

"Actually, it's about Batman."

Xelia blinked. "Oh," she said sheepishly. Her smile turned warmer. "That's a new one."

"How much do you know about him? You know, since you've lived in this city longer, I thought I'd ask someone who had first-hand experience."

"Can't say much, I'm afraid, but I can tell you what I know."

Jean wasn't sure if she really meant _won't_, or if it was truly _can't_, but it was still good news. "Oh thank you so much, I promise I won't keep you long. I know word got around this place pretty quick about your encounter. Or encounters, I should say."

"Mm-hmm," murmured Xelia with tight lips, "Good old Mrs. 'Gossip' McCrawley."

Jean chuckled knowingly. Mrs. McCrawley was a seventy year old woman who lived on their floor. She was tough old bird who asked a lot of prying questions, but meant well. Most likely. The day Jean had moved in, unpacking boxes, Mrs. McCrawley brought over a slice of freshly made chocolate cake as a token of welcome, and then proceeded to spend the entire afternoon catching her up on the past five year's worth of Gotham events and news. Mrs. McCrawley would have probably started on the last decade if Jean hadn't thanked the old woman for the pleasant conversation but had to politely excuse herself to study - which then kept the conversation going for another hour when Mrs. McCrawley asked what Jean was going to school for. In the next few days, several tenants she hadn't met before already knew her by name.

"I was wondering, since you've met the Batman, too," said Jean who then leaned in, her voice quieting for fear of being overheard, "Do you think he's trustworthy?"

"Too?" said Xelia, perking her eyebrows. "You mean you've seen him?"

"Well...yes. He saved me. Last night, actually, in an alley. I took him back to my place, and - "

The whites of Xelia's eyes flashed. She looked ready to laugh.

"Oh! No, no, not like that," said Jean quickly, scrunching her eyes in embarassment, "I mean he got hurt, and I kind of invited him into my apartment to patch him up. Just...I've been thinking about it, was that a good idea? I mean, from your experience, he is a good guy, right?"

Xelia's expression turned serious. Her line of sight gradually rose to the ceiling, clearly in thought. "I think you'll find very quickly in this town that almost every person will have an opinion on him different than the next." Her hazel eyes then settled back on Jean and a smirk appeared. "But I think the naysayers just never had Batman come and save their sorry behinds. Take it from me, unless you're under Gotham's Most Wanted, he won't be stalking you anytime soon."

"Oh. Well. That's reassuring," said Jean plainly as her chest tightened with guilt for second-guessing Batman.

Of course she was immensely thankful for her life, she did think of Batman as her hero, but the mysteriousness of his nature made her so unsure of his motives. Well, not anymore. From now on and until the rest of her life, she would consider Batman the city's saviour. Before yesterday, rumours were all she had to go on that Batman was a source of good, but the legend himself gave her a front-row seat to his capabilities. That was now enough proof for her.

"Thanks, Xelia," said Jean warmly, semi-distracted. "It helps to get someone else's opinion. I guess I've got a lot to learn about how this city works."

Xelia winked. "Welcome to Gotham City, girl," she said, then slung her purse over her shoulder. "See you around, Jean. Have a nice Christmas," she added.

Jean waved. "You, too."

Xelia two-finger saluted and walked the length of the hall and down the stairs. Her rainbow hair bobbed lower and lower until it disappeared, leaving the hall drab and colorless once again. Jean went the opposite direction and hopped down the stairs with a spring in her step, all the way down to the entrance door.

Bright sunlight streaming through the glass was blinding, caused by reflecting off the snow, forcing Jean to squint. Pulling the door open, a blast of cold air greeted her, but the winter sun made up for it by pleasantly warming her exposed skin. The air was breezeless, and the sky cloudless; a perfect Christmas Day. Or perhaps it was made perfect already by the new lease on life Batman had given her.

The decent buildings of her neighborhood gradually gave way to shabbier, run-down shops and dwellings the more she walked. The soup kitchen was in a quaint, still liveable area, perhaps once known for a certain charm, but trash here and there littered it's streets, and the snow pushed aside onto the curb was muddy and sprinkled with dirt. Across the street, a grizzled old man pushed a shopping cart filled with black trash bags, wheeling his way through flowing sidewalks of regular shoppers.

A homeless man dressed in a dusty, dark green coat approached Jean.

"Have you any spare change, miss?" he asked through yellowy-grey teeth, extending a fingerless-gloved hand.

Meeting his drooping eyes and dry voice, Jean felt an overwhelming sense of pity. Her mission could start here. Perhaps she could part with some spare change from her tips. "I might have some, hold on."

She slid her hands into her pockets and dug around. Both left and right turned up empty. She had moved on to the inside one when it occured to her that she wasn't wearing the same coat as yesterday where she stowed some of her tips. The one she wore the previous night was back at her apartment, preserved and prepared to take to the police in case Smoky and his gang left incriminating evidence on it.

"I'm sorry," she said, meaning it entirely, "I don't seem to have any."

"No problem, sweetheart. Merry Christmas," he said kindly, like he had heard her answer many times before, and walked off to the next available couple, holding out his hand.

Guilt pressed Jean's lips and clenched her jaw. But she could only walk on, there was nothing else she could do.

Upon reaching the soup kitchen, Jean was too busy looking at her boots squishing and scraping on the soaked, gravelly sidewalk that she almost bumped into a man holding a large camera on his shoulder. Two more cameramen stood further on, all facing the inside of the shelter. A huge crowd was packed outside of it. At first Jean thought them to be the homeless for which the shelter was constructed for, but many of the people gathered about were dressed in cleaner, finer clothing than usual street fare.

Curiously, Jean stepped on the tips of her toes to see what was going on, but couldn't see anything other than varying shades of hair. Not even her heels gave a few extra inches. Evidently, no criminals had done anything to draw the crowd for there was no police tape, and the people surrounding her were talking quite excitedly. A group of young women giggled nearby, all aflutter. One had even pulled out a compact and started powdering her nose.

Jean pardoned herself to the front of the crowd, squeezing in to an open space at the window. Peering through a light layer of grime on the glass, she could see the local news team in the back, near the kitchen's counter. Summer Gleeson's face glowed from her own camera's light, and wore a knee-length, grey tweed coat that was accesorized glamorously by her practiced, mega-watt smile.

"There you have it, Gotham," she said brightly into a microphone in hand, her voice carrying out through the open door and outside. As strong as Summer's voice was, Jean could barely hear it from that far, and the excited chatter of the women nearby didn't make it any easier to listen in. She wished they would quiet down for just a moment. "Even the biggest of business tycoons, such as Bruce Wayne behind me, can't escape holiday spirit and choose to devote their time today by giving back to the community."

_Bruce Wayne?!_

Jean craned her neck over Summer's shoulder. True to the reporter's word, Bruce Wayne stood behind the counter, along with several other volunteers, in a hairnet and apron, ladling soups and gravies over roast turkey and vegetables to Gotham's homeless.

* * *

**A/N: My apologies if this chapter reads like it's rushed, I simply got a burst of inspiration for the last chapter and had to get everything down quick. Xelia is, as always, not my creation and belongs to Iceewhateverthenumbersare and her series. Xelia is used with Icee's permission.**

**Thank you to all my reviewers, this story wouldn't be what it is without you!**


	4. To Young And Old

Of all people...

Jean curled her lips over her teeth in disappointment. Clearly there was no need for more volunteers. From observation, they worked as a unit, moving in a steady rhythm that suggested they were in tune with eachother; completely in the zone. Everyone had a place, every position thinkable looked occupied.

She backed away from the glass. It would be okay, she assured herself quickly, this wasn't a setback. Once the cameras were turned off, Bruce's charitable appearance would be done, he'd hang up his apron, and Jean could easily slide into his vacated position. It didn't hurt to wait, there were no dinners or get-togethers waiting for her at home, after all.

The crowd was too stifling and excitable to stand beside; Jean almost stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a few of them, and felt isolated from their enthusiasm, for she had a different reason to be there. Not that she wasn't a little star-struck herself, albeit reluctantly. How could she not be, it was the man himself. He reached television, newspapers, and gossip rags across the country, of course his star-power reached one of Gotham's little neighboring towns. But she had a job to do, something bigger than spotting celebrities. Bruce Wayne would easily not be a distraction.

A bus bench stood directly across the street, a handy spot to watch for Bruce Wayne's exit. Jean pardoned herself a couple times, careful not to tread on any foot of Bruce's audience. After crossing the street, she clumsily stepped over a dirty, curbed snowbank, but sunk one boot deeply into the knee-high pile. She wobbled momentarily and twirled the most disgraceful half pirouette to get her other leg over. Once on the other side she wrenched her boot out of the snow, but a cold trickle sliding down her ankle told her it was too late. Her back snapped straight as a rod and she tugged her coat over her hips, brushing it off while eyeing passer-by in the hope that they hadn't seen her ungraceful stumble. The coast was clear.

The bus bench's dull, washed-out paint peeled and chipped in several places, and warped and splintered in a couple more. Jean lowered herself gingerly onto it so as not to snag her pants; or worse.

Minutes later, the news teams seemed to be wrapping up. Summer Gleeson's cameraman switched off his light. The reporter lowered her microphone and fiddled with her coat, and tugged up her shiny leather gloves. She spoke briefly to the cameraman with furrowed eyebrows but then seemed assured at his response. The two cameramen outside also lowered their equipment and made their way to the white news van parked further down the street against the curb.

* * *

Jean crossed, then uncrossed her legs, air-tapped her foot, leaned forward, leaned back, watched clouds so closely that she could see them inch along, car-watched, people-watched, watch-watched, and yet even two hours later, Bruce Wayne still hadn't emerged from the building. He didn't leave through a back-door exit, Jean could still see his white-clad figure through the front windows.

Her stomach growled. Ignoring it, Jean squinted at the sky to figure out the sun's position for an approximate time. It had to have been around noon by now, her bowl of cereal was long gone. A wet and yellowed grocery flyer pasted flat on the sidewalk that depicted a glistening cut of roast beef certainly wasn't helping. Mrs. Witter probably had one just like it sizzling in the oven back home at this very moment. Jean sighed and leaned her head back, staring at a lonely cloud. What she wouldn't have given to have a warm meal right about now...

The deli with the glowing OPEN sign, a couple shops down, sure looked good. About seventy-two dollars currently sat in her bank account, but her wallet sat at the bottom of her cavernous purse, back in the apartment, useless right now.

Jean sat up again but straightened assuredly. Skipped lunch wouldn't be so bad as long as she'd have dinner later. There was still quite a bit of food here and there around her kitchen. They were mostly unrelated to eachother, but she could get creative and put together something worthy of the holiday. A few boxes of macaroni still remained in the cupboard, and a square of cheese left to grate over it. Yeah, there was still that can of tomato sauce, right? And a refreshing glass of cola to top it all off? Perfect.

Her stomach seemed to protest less as if in response to the awaited supper. While her appetite was somewhat satisfied, the roast beef picture still taunted Jean, though. She focused back on the soup kitchen.

Over the course of her time on the bench, Bruce Wayne's fan club slowly dispersed, one-by-one, two-by-two, whomever each person had arrived with. The excited group of young women weren't even the last to leave. They probably realized how long they would have to wait for Gotham's most eligible bachelor to step out, but they didn't seem to leave disappointed; Jean could still hear their excited giggles from across the street as they walked away.

A discouraged sigh escaped her lips. Clearly this wasn't working. Perhaps it was a better idea to ask the person in charge. Jean rolled her eyes at herself; she didn't know why she didn't just do that in the first place. Leaving the bench and sloshing past puddles in the street, she slipped inside the soup kitchen door.

The smell of rich, warm food floated thick like a fog, mixed with mustiness from painted cinder-block walls and the building's patrons. Four long synthetic-wood tables with matching benches were placed length-wise, opening five paths to reach the kitchen. The place wasn't packed to capacity, but there was a definite fair amount of homeless people; very few sat alone. Many hunched their shoulders over their trays and satisfyingly slurped steaming soup, cut into tender slices of roast turkey using their plastic forks and knives, or mopped up the last streaks of gravy with a fluffy bread bun.

A booming laugh, like the sharp crack of a whip, startled Jean. Sitting a few feet ahead, a man with a black beard and a wool hat had clapped his neighbor on the shoulder in good humour whilst laughing. Jean's heart warmed as she passed this display of brotherhood.

The counter met up with her before she could form what she was going to say. An squat, round woman with short, red-dyed curls in thin strands occasionally called orders. She seemed to be the one in charge.

"Excuse me," said Jean, lifting a finger to signal.

The woman didn't seem to hear, she was jovially clapping a hand on Bruce Wayne's shoulder - quite a feat considering how short she was. Jean hadn't seen him there, tunnel vision had completely omitted Bruce Wayne from her sight.

"You can go home now, you know," the woman said kindly to him.

"No, no, Marlene, I'm fine," Bruce said while dipping a ladle into a silver tureen and drizzling gravy all over a prime slice of turkey.

The woman - Marlene - laughed brightly, playing up the wrinkles around her eyes. "You've been here since five a.m., honey! Get some sleep, we'll take it from here."

Jean was taken aback. Her finger curled back into her palm. Hours earlier she had concluded that once Wayne's photo op was over, he'd high-tail it out of there. She blushed sheepishly, glad that those thoughts never left her head. She never really had an opinion of Bruce Wayne before, but one was definitely forming now.

"I can stay for a little bit longer," Bruce insisted.

"Nah, nah, nah, you go on, I can see it, you're exhausted."

On closer inspection, his eyes did look rather puffy.

"I can't say no to you, Marlene," he said wryly. "Alright, fine, if you say so. Thank you very much for the opportunity." He clasped her pudgy hand into his own and patted it. "You're a lovely, lovely lady."

"Oh, off with you, you sweet talker," said Marlene with a playful slap on his arm.

Bruce left through the swinging kitchen door and disappeared behind it while pulling the string loose on his apron.

"Um, excuse me," repeated Jean, finally getting the woman's attention. "If he's done, I can take his place."

"Oh, sweetie, that's really nice of you," Marlene said in the kind of cheer that only came before breaking bad news, "but our kitchen's completely overrun. Got more volunteers than we can handle."

"Oh," said Jean. Her voice fell with her expression. "I see. Well...thank you anyway, ma'am."

Marlene didn't answer and had already left the counter, not out of rudeness but of the need to keep organization. "How's the peas and carrots coming along?" she called.

Jean put her hands in her pockets and followed the same path she took, passing by the same bearded man who was now talking enthusiastically about European soccer teams.

Winter air whooshed into her face as she opened the door and let it close behind her. So what now? This had been her plan for the better part of the day. It wasn't as if she couldn't come back another time - which she totally planned to do - but with the Christmas Eve attack still so fresh, this felt like the perfect time. She supposed The Grinch and Frosty the Snowman could always welcome her back home...

The soup kitchen's door opened behind her. "Alright, I'll see you la-"

Jean nearly went careening as someone bumped into her from the side so suddenly that her heart leaped into her throat.

"I'm so sorry, miss," a man said quickly, clutching her arm to steady her.

Jean stumbled but managed to balance on two feet again with his help. She didn't have to look, she already knew who had almost steam-rolled her onto the sidewalk.

"S'okay" blurted Jean, maybe just a little reluctantly starstruck when she met eyes with Bruce Wayne. He let go of her arm but was still poised to catch her in case he had to.

Jean blinked several times to calm her eyes as they must've looked very alert right now. She involuntarily smoothed the back of her hair, but consciously wished she swapped her glasses for contacts that morning. _A little make-up couldn't have hurt either, Jean..._ Seeing someone all the time on T.V and then finally seeing them in person was a weird, almost out of body experience. On photographs or T.V. he looked larger than life, far away and untouchable. By standing before her, he was like a clone, a home-version that she could take with her anywhere.

"You're not hurt, are you?" asked Bruce.

"No, no, I'm fine," said Jean quickly. Her bruised arms ached from the pressure of the collision, but the pain was minimal and easily brushed off.

"I'm really sorry about that," he said again. Retracting his arms in assurance that Jean wouldn't fall, he continued past her to a waiting limo on the curb. A chaffeur with exquisite posture held the door open.

Jean stared, embarassed at her gawking reaction earlier. Bruce Wayne, _the_ Bruce Wayne, had just bumped into her. It didn't matter that she hardly gave a second thought about the man previously, or was even remotely in big business, he was still kind of a big deal in this town. Add the fact that he worked tirelessly in the soup kitchen long before she even got the idea made a bit of an opinion change in her.

The sun was awfully bright at this angle, glinting off the black car's squeaky-clean shine. Jean stared at the ground to blink away sunspots but found a pristine leather wallet lying there. Looking to her left and then right, there weren't any people who had passed by. Then it had to have been Bruce Wayne's. She bent her knees to pick it up and opened it for I.D just to make sure.

Definitely his. But several lines of color caught her eye; there was cash. Lots of cash.

The world went quiet. Time stopped. Jean saw nothing but all that money, lined up so perfectly. The bills on her table briefly invaded her mind. She glanced cautiously at Bruce walking away.

_Just pocket a bill or two, he'll never notice._

_Oh come on, you're better than that._

_But he's loaded!_

_You don't need it._

_Don't kid yourself, that's a lie._

_No, I can't-_

_Sure you can! It's easy. Come on, what's the better cause? Your medical school, or Bruce Wayne's after-dinner wine this evening?_

The two choices were evenly matched and had her split right down the middle; the scales did not tip in the slightest favour of one.

A twang of guilt plucked Jean's heart like a guitar string. She sighed.

"Mr. Wayne! Wait," she called as he was ducking into his limo. She waved the wallet in the air to signal him. "I think you dropped something!"

Bruce froze immediately. He turned around to see her approaching, holding the wallet out to him. He patted his jacket pocket several times but it pressed flat.

"Wow, thank you," he said, accepting it gratefully once she caught up. "It's not everyday someone would return this to me." He placed it in his other hand and shook Jean's in a firm grasp. "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name."

"It's Jean."

She tried to return the grip, but her hands felt like jelly in comparison.

"Jean...?" he trailed, leaning in and pausing to stretch out her name.

"Witter."

He resumed shaking. "Well, thank you very much, Jean Witter."

His voice was quite pleasant to listen to. Warm, masculine, and as rich as his bank account.

He let go very suddenly. "Hold on." He flipped open the wallet and dug inside, thumbing through it's contents. "I think you deserve a reward."

"Oh no, please, you don't have to," Jean's pride blurted automatically.

"I really must insist," Bruce carried on. He pulled out a crisp, unmarred one hundred dollar bill.

Jean's muscles loosened. She stared at it longingly. The urge to lick her lips in temptation like some sort of cartoon character was strong, but she resisted for dignity's sake. One hundred dollars would put just a little less of a squeeze on her groceries for the week, that was for sure...but she couldn't. Shouldn't. The idea of rewarding herself with something she was supposed to do? It didn't sit right.

"No, but thank you anyway," she said reluctantly, letting the promise of a one hundred go. It wasn't necessary, she had enough to get by, her tips and wage from waitressing were solid, she'd make it.

"I really think you deserve it."

"Really, Mr. Wayne, you don't have to, it's alright."

Bruce then reached over, gently opened her hand, and placed the bill there. Jean stared trance-like at the valuble paper sitting in her palm, so lightweight as to be carried away by the slightest breeze, but so heavy in worth that she was sure it was weighing her arm down. Her fingers trembled as she slowly closed them over the money.

"Merry Christmas," Bruce said with a smile.

"Thank you," whispered Jean, finally giving in and accepting the gift. One hundred dollars didn't mean a lot in today's world to people like him, he probably gave them away like sticks of gum, but it wasn't just the value that humbled her, it was the intent - Bruce's gratitude - behind it.

"You take care of yourself, Jean Witter," Bruce said.

"Yeah. You too," replied Jean so warmly that her limbs tingled. "This city never fails to surprise me. It's been a pleasure, Mr. Wayne."

"Likewise, Ms. Witter."

Bruce nodded in goodbye and once again ducked into his awaiting limo ride. The chauffer pushed the door closed, nodded politely at Jean, and entered the driver's side.

Jean spun around with an anti-gravity spring in her step, feeling like the weight in her boots was the only thing keeping her back on Earth. She hadn't noticed that her lips were stuck in a smile until that moment, it was so instinctual, so natural.

She uncurled her fingers and smoothed the already pristine bill and brought her face in close. Water marks, serial numbers, dimensions, everything checked out; this bill was definitely the real deal. There had to find an open super-market somewhere, she thought excitedly. Forget cardboard macaroni for Christmas, she was going to lay out enough of a banquet to have leftovers for days! Just like home.

She hadn't properly skipped since she was a kid, and while certainly tempting now, she knew of the strange looks she'd get from passer-by.

Gotham's layout was still unfamiliar; her inner compass had much tuning to do. She looked up and down the sidewalks for signs of a grocery store; an ad, a billboard, or anything. Her happy grin lost it's sparkle after a minute, but it simply refused disappear completely. It stayed as she sprightly passed barred shop window after shop window. Most seemed to be open in this particular neighborhood. Pawn shop, computer repair, convenience store...

A dip in the sidewalk and a gap between shops appeared. It led to a strip of alleyway whose entrance was also its exit. The alley was blocked by a brick wall at it's end because the buildings on either side joined there. Two dumpsters were placed at the far end and trash cans lined up in rows, but the area wasn't empty of people. The homeless man in the dusty green coat who had asked Jean for money was sitting near the entrance on a plastic crate, leaning his head on the wall behind him. A worn navy blue baseball cap sat over curly, grey hair that reached below his ears, and a red and black plaid blanket was draped over his lap. He appeared to be resting.

Jean's grin faded. Her fingers crunched the one hundred dollar bill protectively. No. This was hers. She earned it. The man's fate was sad, but it wasn't her fault that he lived on the street, she should feel no guilt whatsoever of his predicament. It didn't matter that earlier she'd been willing to part with her tips, this was different. This was completely different. Totally. She was going home right now and would make a Christmas dinner that her grandma would be proud of. That's all there was to it. Her stomach chose that moment to gurgle, as if confirming it's agreement.

The homeless man snorted awake all of a sudden and blinked his bleary eyes for a moment as if surprised that he dozed off. He tasted his tongue while surveying his surroundings casually. Jean turned away, she didn't want to see anymore. She strode away and escape before her conscience butted in.

* * *

"Thank you, ma'am, have a nice day," the perky, male cashier said.

The bell above the door twinkled as Jean exited the deli. A skip of anxiety paced in her chest. Sunlight streamed down and kept the garbage alley well-lit from above.

"Hi, excuse me?" said Jean shyly, approaching the homeless man in tiny steps and entering the alleyway. There were plenty of people passing through the sidewalk, she felt relatively safe and could easily run if he revealed himself to be hostile. "I was just wondering if...maybe I could join you for Christmas dinner?"

She lifted a plastic bag from the deli shop to indicate sandwiches she bought.

The homeless man watched her for a few suspended seconds, lips parted in confusion like he was trying to gauge whether or not Jean was being sincere.

"Well, bless your heart, girl," he answered enthusiastically. Jean supposed she passed the test. He pivoted in his seat to get a better look at her. "What's your name?"

"Jean."

"Well, pleased to meet ya, Jean! The name's Lloyd. Lloyd Baxtresser." The man gestured grandly, jerking a thumb to his chest. Though his voice had a raspy quality, his swanky style of speaking was pleasant to listen to. Jean grinned in reply.

"A pleasure, Lloyd," she said with a nod, wanting to reflect his manners back. So far, so good. Her shyness evaporated as she dug into the bag and reached out to hand Lloyd one of two foot-long turkey subs, and a bottled cola, the oddest Christmas feast she ever had.

"Oh, you're an angel. Why ain't ya with your family today, sweetheart?" Lloyd asked as he set the sandwich on his blanketed lap, removed his hat, and untwisted the bottle's cap.

Jean overturned a yellow, plastic milk basket to sit on, taking care to avoid the puddle near the drainage pipe. "They're back in my hometown up north," she explained, unwrapping her own sub. "I moved to Gotham for school this year."

"Is that right," said Lloyd in legitimate interest, evident by his bushy raised eyebrows. He paused momentarily to take an enormous bite of his sandwich. "Whatchu takin'?"

He asked before Jean finished her first bite. "Uhm, I'm shtudying medishih - pardon." She covered her mouth delicately. Her mother would have been appalled to see her daughter talking and chewing at the same time.

Lloyd laughed heartily. "No need to impress, my dear," he said, gesturing around them. "My house is a mess, I'm not any better. You were saying?"

"I'm, uh, studying medicine."

"Really, now? Tough work, what made you wanna go into that?"

It was now Jean's turn to laugh. "It's kind of a long story," she warned.

Lloyd smiled genuinely. "I've got all day if you've got the same."

Jean lowered her sandwich. "I actually kind of want to specialize in trauma surgery. You know, Emergency Room cases, things like that..."

As a girl Jean had never even considered being a doctor aside from a plastic stethoscope, white dress-up coat, and an imagination. But one night when she was thirteen, the age where she was leaving behind her world of pretend, she saw a Gotham news report about a hospital staff shortage. It had set in motion a thought that stayed with her. She fantasized time and time again of people from all walks of life being rushed into her ER on gurneys while bleeding, impaled, convulsing, or in need of appendix removal. And it would be her job to save them. Reasons would be unknown to her when people were wheeled through those doors as complete strangers, but it wouldn't matter when their life danced on the brink, they were all the same under a bright light and surgical tools. They all had a story, and it wasn't going to end yet.

But that point was still so very far away.

* * *

_Earlier..._

Bruce peered through the tinted glass at Jean. Her back was facing him but she appeared to be inspecting the money he had given her.

Alfred looked into the rearview mirror. "Master Bruce, I fear you may arouse the suspicions of your victims one of these years. One keen-eyed individual will be sure to discover that your decoy wallet is not crafted from real Italian leather."

Bruce sifted through the obviously phony bills whereupon inspection would reveal them to have odd-numbered amounts not in print, noting not a single one missing. Well, all except for one, of course; the lone legitimate bill now in Jean's possession.

"Don't be silly, Alfred," said Bruce with a cheeky half-smile. "I think you might be overestimating the average person's ability to see the difference."

"And you may be underestimating them, sir, if you'll permit me saying."

"They'll just think me cheap."

"Doubtful."

"Or my real one is at the cleaners."

Alfred sighed. "If you insist, sir," he said, suppressing a roll of his eyes. He started adjusting the car's side mirrors.

Bruce smirked contemplatively. He uncurled his fingers to study his hand and rubbed at the thin line of make-up concealer there, invisible even to himself. A string of latex slowly faded into view, three tones lighter than his own flesh. Digging into the top corner with a fingernail, he peeled the latex back a few inches. The scab, now dried and brown, had made nice progress in healing. Jean Witter's tending did quite well and sufficed during last night when he hunted down Gary Birbiglia's band of criminals.

Through the window, Bruce happened to see Jean walk by again, only with a plastic bag and two bottles of cola this time. He watched her turn into the nearby alley, stopping in front of a run-down man sitting there. After exchanging a few words, the man's face lit up and Jean reached into her bag to hand him a sandwich, and soon sat down with him.

"I don't know about you, Alfred," Bruce said, smiling and tucking the fake wallet into his jacket pocket, "But I think I'm in the mood for hot cocoa."

* * *

**A/N: One more chapter to go, my lovelies. I could have easily ended the story here, but I have a specific ending in mind. Can I just say that you all rock? I couldn't ask for better readers, you all stick with me throughout my horribly sporadic updates. Without my readers, my writing and stories go nowhere. I worship you. Yes, you. You right there *points through your screen* Hey, how's it going?**

**Don't be shy to tell me what you think, it helps me become a much better writer, which is exactly what I want to do so that I can bring quality stories to the audience :D**


End file.
